"I was a-tryin'," Sam once meditatively remarked, up in The Battery, as he straightened himself up after carefully depositing a fresh log upon the blazing fire,—"I was a-tryin' t' figger out how many majors we've got now. Startin' at th' top, thar's three real majors, which are three; then thar be th' surg'n—he bein' also a major likewise—comin' t' four; then th' sargint-major an' drum-major totals her up t' six—an' then in comes Major Larry Callahan, at th' wind-up, makin' sev'n. Sev'n majors! Tol'able gen'rous outfit fur one reg'ment, hain't it?"
Well, yes—I suppose it is; and yet all seven of our majors ably fill their positions, while Major Larry Callahan certainly fills his to the brim.
He never was enlisted, and his name has no place between the heavy leather covers of the paymaster's cherished roll-book, and yet he is just as much a part of the regiment as the colonel commanding, or for that matter, as the adjutant—and everybody knows how big a man a gold-corded adjutant considers himself. Why, I honestly believe that Colonel Elliott—at such times as it seems good to parade the Third, to exhibit the power of the Commonwealth's "Strong Right Arm"—never would think of giving the order to start into motion his seven hundred men unless he first had made sure that Larry was at his post in front of the big bass-drum. "Is Mulcahy in the ranks?" asked Hancock at Gettysburg. "He is? Then let the battle proceed!"—and that rather well illustrates our feelings in regard to our seventh major.
It was two years ago last June when he came to us. We just had topped off a week of hard work in camp by a long, hot parade through the dusty streets of the city, and six of our twelve companies had been dismissed to take trains for their out-of-town stations, while the rest of the regiment, with the drum-corps and the band, had marched up town to the big armory. How he got by the sentry at the door is more than I can tell, but somehow he managed it; I dare say he "sneaked it" in, under cover of the big drum which afterwards became his idol.
Captain Tom Stearns, of "A," had turned his company over to his first sergeant, and stood mopping his forehead with his handkerchief, as he watched his men slowly filing through the door of the drill-hall on their way upstairs to quarters, when he felt a tug at the skirts of his coat and heard a hoarse little voice demanding, "C'n I get a job carryin' de drum—say, can't I, mister? I c'n tote it jus' 's well's dat coon youse got dere, an' I'd match d' rest o' de men better."
The captain looked down, and discovered, about at the level of his belt, a fiery red head, crowned by the ruin of a once-white straw hat; while a snub nose, an enormous mouth, a lavish display of freckles, and a twinkling pair of impish gray eyes made up the prominent features of the face upturned for his inspection.
"How in time did you get in here?" politely asked Stearns, taking the intruder by the ear, and entirely ignoring his request.
"Follied de band, same's youse did. Le' go me ear, will yer! Say, c'n I carry de drum?"
"No, you can't. Now, 'bout face—and march!" replied the captain, releasing the boy's ear. "Look out for the guard at the door, or he'll make a pincushion of you when you go by him."